Tragedy, Remedy, Insanity, Clarity
by SoahOrange
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John is losing all hope and can't continue without Sherlock, and why should he? His best friend died before he had a chance to tell him how he really felt. Inspired by the song Clarity by Zedd. Contains mild-language, Mystrade, Johnlock, and fluff stuff later on. I rate M because I never know what I'll add into it. Trigger: Suicide attempt, alcohol, torture
1. Chapter 1

**Hello everyone~ I wanted to write my own Johnlock suicide-thingy fic...I'm sure you all get the jist of what that is. I thrive on reviews! Well, here goes for the first chapter! Enjoy. **

The rain patted softly on the window of the man who was doing his best to remain in a steady stream of unconsciousness. He hadn't slept well in ages, well, a year to be exact.

_BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. _

The irritating noise shattered the peacefulness of the morning, and, doing its duty, woke the previously dreaming man. John grumbled, hating to be pulled of the wonderful dream he was having.

The recurring dream that, for a short time in the dreary day, allowed him to escape to a better world. A world that contained those who were important to him, and the one who made life worth living to begin with.

Standing, he ruffled the back of his hair, and made his way down the stairs to the bathroom. John had decided to remain in Baker Street, much to Mycroft and Lestrade's dismay. They were hoping he would move out, and begin the healing process faster. But with a firm determination that always accompanied the good doctor, he refused to move. Mycroft had merely sighed and agreed to pay for the continued rent of 221 B so long as John lived there. Greg hadn't been so keen and have even remained in the flat with John for the first month and a half in order to ensure John didn't make any stupid decisions. He left afterwards, and things had picked up for a little while, only to begin falling back apart in a matter of weeks. The flat hadn't changed much in a year, perhaps another layer of dust had gathered, and certainly there was a massive shortage of food in the cabinets, which was unusual for a man who was supposed to be taking good care of himself.

John sighed as he stripped and glanced at himself in the mirror before turning the water on.

He was skinnier than he had ever been. The ribs protruding in a very displeasing manner, while his skin looked stretched and sickly pale. John's once lively and sparkling blue eyes now barely flickered with life as he continued the daily motions he knew he was required to complete. That was it though. Requirement.

He stood in the water, rubbing his face. John woke up every morning now, not with the prospect of life, but with the dismal regret he couldn't stop himself from feeling. Mycroft had threatened to station someone in his house to make sure he was eating and going through the day as much as possible. So, John began creating the best façade he had ever made. It tricked Mycroft enough, or at least John had assumed so since he hadn't heard from him in weeks.

_One year…_he thought to himself as he finished and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist, and moved to the sink to shave off the stubble that had been growing in the past week.

_It's been over a year since Sher-…since he left_.

John swallowed tightly as the contents of his stomach threatened to escape his stomach. Not that it would have been much, John couldn't recall what the last thing he had eaten was, or when it had been for that matter. It generally all came back up anyway, so he decided it was advantageous to him to keep things out of it to begin with. Mrs. Hudson had began to worry about him, but it was hard to tell how much weight he had lost; those jumpers he wore were very good at concealing his body.

He splashed the water on his face, clearing off the remaining shaving cream, and headed back upstairs to get dressed for work. He kept his job at the clinic, that was the only thing that managed to get him out of bed. Lestrade and he met up weekly for drinks, but John didn't think of it as companionship in the same respect that Greg did. He was there for the cloud that sank over his mind after having a few. Blocking out memories of the wonderful consulting detective he had become so attached to. Pulling on his trousers, he made his way downstairs and reached for his coat, pausing momentarily to decide if he should consume some sort of nourishment. After all, he'd even told She-_HIM_ that a transport needs energy.

"Not like I would keep it down anyway," he muttered to himself, and zipped up his jacket before trudging down the stairs to grab a cab, it had started raining a few days ago, and ceaselessly poured on.

"Oh John, dear," came a voice from behind him. John turned, a smile upon his face towards the sweet landlady-not-your-house keeper- Mrs. Hudson.

"I was making dinner last night, and I had so many leftovers I figured you would take them," she said, handing him a container with meatloaf and some vegetables in it.

"Oh, thank you Mrs. Hudson. Saves me from buying lunch today," he replied with a small chuckle. She wished him a good day, and John proceeded down the wet stairs to wave down a taxi before he was drenched to the bone, and came down with a cold that would prevent him from working. He doubted he would eat the food. It would most likely be left in the communal fridge until it either molded or someone else grabbed it. John didn't mind. If someone else could enjoy Mrs. Hudson's practically famous cooking, they should.

The day passed without incident. A few flu cases, some prescription renewals, and a couple of morons who thought it would be great fun to shove a cotton swab up ones arse. Exactly what did people do for entertainment nowadays?

John sighed as he removed his gloves and checked the clock. That had been his last appointment of the day, and the knowledge of finally being able to head home and remain alone in his isolation gave him a guilty smile. He took a sip of tea he had made earlier, but it was cold now. He mentally shrugged and finished it off anyways. At least he had something in his system to preoccupy his stomach.

"John?" Sarah stuck her head in through the door suddenly. "Would you like to come to the pub with us? Weekend deals are on!" she asked him cheerfully. John mustered up a gracious smile. The thought of going drinking wasn't terribly unpleasant, but the thought of his colleagues watching him drink himself into oblivion was. He nibbled on a biscuit that was left on his desk from the morning, and managed a piece of muffin that was on the plate as well. So much for nourishment.

"Actually, I have plans today, but thank you for offering." She nodded and left without another word. People had stopped questioning him about what he was doing every second of the day after a few months, all worried about what trouble he was getting himself into. But as time went on, and John's smile remained intact, people believed he was doing better.

The smile fell from his face after the door shut, and he buried his head in his hands. Oh how wrong they were. Each and every day John was fighting the urge to simply end it all, and go to join the one he cared about most. The temptation was always in his fingertips, but in the back of his mind an annoying voice reminded him that not only was Mycroft probably still watching him, but that Sherlock would disapprove as well. His breath hitched in his throat. That name. That wonderfully ingenious name that had brought him the greatest joy he had ever imagined, as well as the cruelest despair he had ever felt. He didn't think of his name often. It brought back memories more strongly, and those were memories he was doing his best to let go, and forget if he possibly could. But he wouldn't. He cherished those memories, the ones that made him into the person he was today.

John stood, shaking slightly, and set his paperwork aside; it could wait until Monday morning. For now, he had somewhere more important to be.

The now navy sky rumbled as the storm drizzled on. It wasn't raining hard, but the thunder that echoed throughout London made John question as to when it would begin to fall at a much more drastic pace. He shivered slightly as the wind blew suddenly, but he didn't leave his spot. The cemetery was generally empty on normal days, and was barren with the rain that fell. It was peaceful, and calming to be able to speak his mind without being overheard. He cast his eyes down on the onyx stone. The flowers had been replaced recently; John made sure they were changed at least once a week.

"I'm surprised I keep coming back here," he said more to himself than the gravestone in front of him, "but I just keep hoping that maybe…maybe you aren't dead. I know I asked for a miracle…" his voice trailed off. He wasn't sure what to say anymore. He had already told much of his life story and daily dealings during other visits.

"Greg keeps checking up on me once a week. S'pose I shouldn't be surprised since he and Mycroft has become so close. Did you know they were together? Probably, there wasn't much anyone could hide from you, especially your brother," he smiled amusedly. The Holmes brothers' relationship was certainly a thing to behold. But now that Greg and Mycroft had made it official, it had softened the minor British government worker some.

"I don't know why I keep doing it. Acting like everything is going alright on the inside, when I wish I could be next to you," he choked on the emotion threatening to overflow.

"Everyone buys it…I'm not sure if they really know, or I'm simply becoming a much better liar. I like to think the latter. Wouldn't want to worry anyone unnecessarily." His coat was drenched now, standing in the rain for so long. But he continued.

"I never got the courage to tell you how I really felt Sherlock," his voice broke as John said his name, "I wanted to tell you so many times. You were more than just the one who put me back together, who made me feel like I wasn't alone anymore," a few tears had found there way past his defenses.

"I love you Sherlock," he practically whispered. He wasn't even sure he had spoken the words. "And I need you to come home now…or at the very least…I'm desperate to come home to you again. I miss you Sherlock. Going through the motions, day after day, month after month, and now a year. God, Sherlock a year? I can hardly believe it." He wiped his face with his sleeve.

"I want to see you again…And I'm ready to do anything for it Sherlock…anything that's necessary." He said, and with a brush of his hand against the grave marker, he turned and left.

He made it back to Baker Street and debated whether to change, or attempt to catch pneumonia. John had stopped seeing his psychiatrist shortly after Sherlock's death. He didn't feel like she was helping any by forcing him to relive the nightmare he faced when he slept, day after day. He had stopped caring about the world long ago, and only wished to be left alone in his grief and misery. John found his footsteps leading to his room without being asked to, and changing out of habit. The doctor in him knew pneumonia would be silly to get, especially when he could prevent it. He trudged back down the stairs in pajamas, and checked to make sure the doors were locked. When he was certain he was alone, he made his way into the kitchen and reached into the cabinet above the counter. Grabbing the first bottle within reach he started to pour himself a glass. Downing it he filled another, and another, and another, before finally deciding it was pointless and took the bottle with his as he made his way over to the sofa. He turned on the telly for background noise, and curled up with his union jack pillow. His brain was fuzzy now, and his memories came out like the dam had broke inside his mind.

Sherlock. His scarf, his experiments, that belstaff coat that only added to his gorgeousness. John curled the pillow closer to himself as the tears began. Remembering it all. Finding him in the school building and shooting the taxi driver without hesitation after only knowing him for a day. The terror he felt as Moriarty strapped him into a bomb jacket and was threatening to blow Sherlock up. The true fear he recognized on Sherlock's face in Baskerville, how frightened he had been and raced to be with his companion. The snide remarks towards the inept officers on the police force. Sherlock showing up at Buckingham palace in nothing but a sheet, and then managing to swipe an ashtray; John had giggled about it for days afterwards. Sherlock's face as it lit up at the thought of the possibility of a serial killer.

_Oh it's Christmas! A serial killer!_ Sherlock's voice echoed in his mind. His face when it glimmered with a smile towards John on a crime scene. The infernal experiments that would stink up the house, or sometimes cause John to react so violently that Sherlock would be forced to discontinue the experiment altogether. Those times when a big smirk would cross his face every time someone referred to them as dating and John would deliberately shout, "I'm NOT GAY." Sherlock blowing away John's mind with his deductions, always receiving an "amazing," or something similar. The day when John realized he had fallen head over heels for the world's only consulting detective. The joy that raced through his heart, and blush that crept up on his cheeks would he would find himself staring at Sherlock for no reason. He would never comment, merely smile at John and continue whatever it was he was doing. The nights when he would wake up from his nightmares in the middle of the night, and fall peacefully back to sleep to the sound of the echoing violin. And then that fateful day. John began to sob as the vivid memory played through his mind.

_"This phone call it's…it's my note. That's what people do don't they? Leave a note."_

_ "Leave a note when?"_

_ "Goodbye, John."_

_ "No, DON'T –… SHERLOCK!"_

John wept into the pillow, the bottle fell from his hand, landing somewhere on the floor. It was mostly empty, not going to leak everywhere.

"Sherlock…," he whispered to himself, "Please…please come back," he pleaded. Wishing that somewhere, Sherlock could hear him and would answer him. End his misery, and come back to the doctor, hi blogger.

"And if not…please let me come to you."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

The elder Holmes brother sighed as he attempted to focus on the paperwork in front of him. Words of decoded messages splayed out across from him, and though he knew this could determine the outcome of a civil war occurring in Northern Africa, he couldn't pull himself out of his mind to focus. Mycroft stood resignedly and walked over to his window, gazing out upon his bleary kingdom. London wasn't known for sunshine and goodness, but the criminal intent seemed to lessen as time had passed. With no mastermind, criminal genius to concoct vicious schemes, much of the crime rate had steadily decreased.

The grand puppet master himself, Moriarty, had been found dead (obviously), and his network was coming apart, one piece at a time. The British government official pulled up his mouth in a thin line. One year. It had been a year since he had helped Sherlock with his suicide scheme. And now, his little brother was gallivanting around the world; hunting down the last frayed edges of Moriarty's network and putting an end to them. It had not been an easy task to identify who was associated with Moriarty, but with Sherlock on the case, surely it would be solved. Why, if the great consulting detective himself couldn't identify who was, and wasn't, associated with Moriarty, there would be much more trouble for Mycroft.

"Such a stubborn boy," he mumbled to himself, lost in his thoughts. He had offered to help Sherlock, time and time again. Assuring him that his "friends" (as Moriarty called them) were safe, under no duress, and that he could come back and let Mycroft's men deal with the rest of the web. But no, Sherlock had adamantly refused, and severed all connections with the elder brother immediately thereafter. Mycroft wondered idly if his brother was still alive at this moment, he hadn't heard from him since that day, though he was keeping a weather eye on the traces of his handiwork that showed up around the globe.

There was a knock at the door suddenly.

"Come in," he replied without turning to see who it was. The sound of feet shuffled towards him told Mycroft it was Anthea coming in.

"Yes?" he asked as he continued to look out at the gray London before him.

"Sir, the detective inspector from Scotland Yard is here to see you," she said, her fingers typing furiously away at her blackberry. But she looked up, awaiting his response.

"Ah, yes," Mycroft replied, turning from his window gazing and moving around to the front of his desk to lean upon it.

"Show him in."

"Yes, sir," she acknowledged and returned to her phone whilst walking out of the posh office of her boss with the same shuffling that had brought her in. Mycroft's hands rested against the cool mahogany of his desk, absently running his fingers over the smooth polish as he awaited his visitor.

Greg and Mycroft had become close after Sherlock's drugs bust. Lestrade had been the officer to conduct a strike against a dealer's nest, and had found Sherlock in the midst of everything. Delirious with the newest dose raging through his system, it had taken three of Lestrade's best men to hold him down and be taken into custody. Before he had even the opportunity to put Sherlock in the car, the British government had casually walked up and taken over, much to the DI's dismay.

Mycroft's mouth pulled into a grim smile as he remembered Greg's face when he had intervened. After learning about Sherlock's situation from Lestrade, Mycroft took it upon himself to personally see to it that Sherlock was checked into rehab, and unable to leave until he was clean again. Figuring that that would have been the end of communication between himself and Lestrade, he was surprised to be called upon one day by the DI, who was curious about how Sherlock's progress in rehab. Mycroft discovered Greg was a very good listener, and eventually, it became a routine for them to meet. Though they had started by using Sherlock as an excuse to talk, they soon found themselves talking to each other about more personal issues. The elder Holmes brother would share his secret side of life (when security permitted), and Greg would talk about new cases he was currently working on. Mycroft found a fondness for the handsome DI, and was not oblivious to the feelings coming from him either. They grew close, closer than Mycroft had ever let anyone in before. But before things could progress to a new level between them, Sherlock had finished his rehabilitation. Mycroft and Greg agreed, somewhat grudgingly, that it was best to stop talking. Lestrade promised to set Sherlock up with puzzling cases, in order to occupy his mind, rather than drug use. And for Mycroft, it was simpler not to have a relationship interfering with his line of work. Not to mention the torturous hell of teasing he would have to endure from his ever perceptible younger brother.

The door opened again. Mycroft's face lightened as he saw Lestrade coming in. The DI looked as fit as ever, and gave a warm smile as he shut the door and strode over to the desk, standing in front of Mycroft.

"You look like hell," Greg stated, a faint trace of concern gracing his features. Mycroft walked out from behind his impressive desk and came to came to stand beside Greg, his hands reaching for Mycroft's and lacing together softly. There was a small bit of silence between them before Mycroft found his voice.

"Indeed, I probably do. I've been trying to determine the best course of action in preventing civil war in Africa. Not to mention trying to manage the rest of British national security on the side," he said somewhat jokingly. Greg saw right through him though and gave Mycroft's hand a reassuring squeeze.

"You'll figure it out, I'm sure of it," he said.

"Eventually no doubt. It's interesting to think about international affairs right now though." Greg gave him a confused look before Mycroft continued.

"My primary position really only deals with internal affairs. Terrorism, political scandals, etc. To have orders from up above about international affairs is rare and generally means things have been peaceful at home long enough to shift our focus to other matters," Mycroft explained, pulling Greg closer to himself.

"I don't really wish it were this peaceful though," he said half mumbling in Lestrade's ear. His partner nodded understandingly. Since the massive takedown of Moriarty, crime seemed to have been reduced to normal. No mentions of imminent terrorist threats, no rash political scandals that could result in an upheaval of British law. Nothing. Sherlock's added disappearance hadn't left Mycroft unstirred. Despite knowing, generally speaking, that his brother was alive and fighting somewhere around the world, he was Mycroft's little brother; Mycroft did in fact miss having the annoying brat around sometimes. More than that though, he knew how much Sherlock's supposed death was affecting Dr. Watson.

The two lapsed into silence again with Mycroft holding the smaller, yet remarkably fit, detective. These silences weren't uncommon for them, and neither were they uncomfortable. Both partners could generally read each other's emotions in silence better anyway. Not to mention, Mycroft had a flare for being dramatic, even in his personal relationships.

Greg spoke up first.

"How's John doing today?" Mycroft made a peculiar face that caused his nose to look pinched, as if he had smelled something sour.

"I'm not sure. I stopped keeping tabs on him a couple of weeks ago upon his insistence he was getting better. By what standards 'better' is, I haven't the faintest idea. He hasn't seen his psychiatrist in months, so most of my reports about his wellbeing are sent through occasional watchers."

"Could he be moving on perhaps? I've passed by him occasionally on my way to work, and he on his way to the clinic." Greg looked up at Mycroft with hopeful eyes.

"I would like to hope so, Greg. But I'm afraid most of what I've heard lately proves the opposite is true. He's bought less food this month than previously, and hasn't been out other than work, and the regular outing you two have."

Greg's face fell as he listened.

"You two have an outing tonight, don't you? You could try prying and see how he's really doing. I suppose if things have gotten as worse as they seem we could intervene…"

Greg leaned his face into Mycroft's chest, hugging him tightly. John is one of Greg's closest friends, and unable to be of much use to helping the doctor recover from his emotional wreck sometimes made him feel helpless about the situation. Once, after Lestrade had just returned from one of his visits with John, about seven months after Sherlock's "death", Greg had been so upset over John's condition that he had threatened to leave Mycroft for good if he didn't bring back Sherlock to Baker Street immediately. Obviously neither of them had done such things, and Greg had calmed down after a few days.

"I'll try to, I suppose. Hard to tell when he's putting up a face and when he's genuinely feeling something better these days," Greg muttered as he began to pull away from Mycroft; it was almost time for them to meet up anyway.

"Speaking of which, I need to be heading over there now."

Mycroft, keeping their hands together, walked him over to his office door. As they reach it, both facing each other, Mycroft leant down and placed a sweet kiss on his boyfriend's forehead, followed by a (much) longer one on his soft lips.

"You are helping, Greg. Despite whatever negativism you have running through that clever mind of yours, I assure you he's getting better bit by bit."

Greg nodded in agreement, slightly after that pleasant kiss. Mycroft rarely allowed any types of PDA, but in private he was quite a touchy-feely person. Hearing his encouraging words, Greg let out a deep sigh and mustered up a smile.

"Guess I'll continue doing what I can then."

Mycroft gave his hand one last squeeze before reaching to open up the door for the detective inspector.

"See you at home later?" Greg asked quietly, just before he stepped out. With Mycroft's crazy work schedule, it was hard to say what days he would be able to stay at home, instead of working through the night, or traveling somewhere.

"I hope to, Lestrade," he replied and with that watched as Greg gave his thanks to Anthea and headed out to catch a cab to the pub that he and John met at. How lucky he was to have such a tender and caring partner. He smiled fondly as he sat down at his desk, trying to refocus his mind into actually assessing the information written on the messages after such a welcomed distraction. His phone pinged, alerting him to a text message.

_**Definitely need to come home tonight. Have a surprise. ;)- GL**_

And with that, Mycroft was left to try even harder to focus on his task.

Greg shivered as he stepped outside the cab in front of his regular meeting place with John. He paid the cabbie, and stepped inside the warm atmosphere full of laughter and delightful pub smells. Greg made his way over to an empty section of the bar, more away from the crowd since he knew John was a bit uncomfortable with lots of people around, strangers or not.

"Can I getch' ya' sometin' to drink?" asked the bar tender with a Scottish accent.

"Beer, thanks" Greg ordered as he settled in to wait for John. Shouldn't be too long now; they normally meet at 8:30 and it was 8:20 now. The bartender, Clyde, came back with Greg's beer and basket of pretzels. The beer was nice and refreshing after the day in Scotland Yard, though his quick visit to Mycroft had been more than enough to make the day worth it. He didn't often surprise Mycroft unannounced, lest should he be in an important meeting Greg didn't want to disturb him.

Onto his second beer, and about to order food at this point, Greg began to wonder where John was. Surely walking didn't even take this long; it wasn't far away from Baker Street for John's convenience. He glanced at the clock, 8:55. Maybe he was just running a bit behind from the clinic today? Greg shot off a quick text to John, just to remind him.

9:25.

This late wasn't like John. And even if he had been, John had the courtesy to let Greg know if he wasn't coming by now. Greg pulled out his mobile and called to see if John would pick up. No answer. He left a message and sighed, motioning to Clyde he would like another beer. Clyde nodded his understanding. Greg fidgeted, a bit nervous now.

_Give it a bit longer. _He told himself. Maybe he just decided to take a nap after a long day and didn't realize the time. Regardless, and though it seemed like a bit of an overreaction, Greg was getting more and more worried.

By 10:00, Greg had waited long enough. He paid his bill to Clyde, pulled on the gray wool coat perfect for cold London weather. As he stepped outside, he thought about heading over to Baker Street right quick, at least to ask Mrs. Hudson how John was. Deciding he would, Greg took out his phone and sent a text to Mycroft explaining how John hadn't turned up and that he would swing by to check with Mrs. Hudson before heading home.

_**Be careful. If he decided to drink on his own you don't know what kind of John you'll have on your hands- MH**_

_**I will. Let you know if anything suspicious comes up- GL**_

_**Alright-MH**_

Watching his breath in the cold evening, Greg trekked along the damp streets towards Baker Street. Thankfully, it had stopped raining so Greg didn't have to waste money on a taxi. Again, it wasn't a very long walk, and within a few blocks he was standing in front of the doctor's flat. He rang the doorbell and when no one came to the door after almost a minute he decided maybe John was out elsewhere. But, just then the door opened and Mrs. Hudson was there.

"Good evening Mrs. Hudson, is John around?" She stepped back to motion the detective inside.

"Oh, what a surprise detective. I believe so. He came home earlier this afternoon, but I never heard him leave," she answered.

"I see," Lestrade said then, "well would you mind terribly if I went upstairs to check on him? Haven't heard from him in a while."

Mrs. Hudson gave a soft sigh.

"I'm not really certain how much better he's getting. If any at this point. I haven't seen him eat for weeks you know?" she began to ramble. Greg nodded and smiled awkwardly and tried to make his way upstairs. She continued talking to nobody as he made his way to the upper flats.

"John?" he called out, unsurprised when he was met with silence.

_Maybe he really did just fall asleep, _he thought to himself and made his way into the flat. He walked upstairs first, not seeing anyone in the kitchen or living room. The creaky stairs would have alerted anyone to his presence, let alone a trained soldier.

"You in here?" he called again, pushing John's bedroom door open. The space was vacant, and held a slight staleness to it, as though this space hadn't advanced through time like normal. As if living in the past…

Greg's face tightened at finding the flat so unchanged while so empty at the same time. Nothing had really been moved since Sherlock's death. Shutting the door to John's room, Lestrade made his way back downstairs and surveyed the kitchen more closely. There were a few empty whiskey bottles in the trash and the place was meticulous, but in a very unused way rather than a constant clearing of food particles.

_Or crazy experiments on remains of all sorts of species_. He opened the door, definitely prying now, and felt a bit saddened. There wasn't a piece of food in the fridge that hadn't expired by now. He made a mental note to have Mycroft send in his creepy stalkers to refill the fridge with something edible. Greg shut the door, and was about to leave, thinking that John most likely wasn't in the flat and Mrs. Hudson simply hadn't heard him leave.

Sherlock's door caught his eye though.

_Suppose if I wanted to drink myself into oblivion death over Mycroft's death, I would do it in our bedroom._

He walked down the small hallway, passing the darkened bathroom and rapped gently on the door.

"John," he called again, "are you in there mate?" There wasn't a real response, but Greg could make out the faintest snore-like sound. He sighed, a bit relieved and opened the door. There was a lump in the sheets, difficult to see in the dark but Greg could easily assume it was John.

He reached out and shook John's arm lightly.

"Hey, John wake up," he called, loud enough to hopefully wake him. Greg needed to be sure John was really okay.

There was no response.

"Oi, John, get up!" he said a bit louder, and shook him more vigorously.

Still no response.

He reached over and flicked on the light switch, and that was when he saw it.

John was sickly pale, with faintly blue lips, barely breathing at all.

"Oh god! JOHN!" Greg shook him, ridiculously hard now trying to wake up the unconscious man and hope to heaven it wasn't what he feared.

Nothing.

The detective side came out and he immediately grabbed for his mobile and called an ambulance. On the phone with the operator, John looked white as death, which he would be if Lestrade hadn't come by.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Greg shouted, beginning to search the room for a bottle of pills.

"Mrs. Hudson get up here!" he yelled as the older woman came into view.

"Oh, goodness! John! Inspector is he…"

"No, not yet, but I need you stay here in case he starts to throw up or stops breathing."

The detective swept into the bathroom, knocking down bottles of anything that wasn't what he assumed John's drug of choice would be until he found a small blue bottle lying in the hamper, next to an empty bottle of whiskey.

Seconds after he found the bottle he could hear the ambulance pulling up outside, and his phone ringing at the same time. Greg began barking off facts to the paramedics, while reaching for his phone.

"Hello?!" He said, not looking at the caller ID.

"Greg, is everything alright?" Mycroft's voice came over the speaker, "I was just notified that an ambulance was sent to John's flat, what happened?" he said, his director voice coming through loud and clear. Lestrade focused on that to get the words out to Mycroft.

"It's John, Mycroft, he…he tried to kill himself."


End file.
